Page 4 of Tempting the President (Oro Nero MC)

HE HAS MY KINDLE.

Except it’s worse than just leaving my Kindle. Because my Kindle contains my entire reading history.

Every motorcycle club romance I’ve ever downloaded.

Every billionaire-claims-innocent-academic fantasy I’ve ever highlighted.

Every spicy scene I’ve bookmarked and returned to, sometimes multiple times in one night.

And now Patrizio Steele has access to all of it.

I roll over, burying my face in my pillow with a groan that would be more appropriate for someone facing an IRS audit than a literature exposure. But the humiliation feels just as intense.

I spend the entire night replaying yesterday’s disaster in excruciating detail.

Which is exactly what any sane, professional woman would do after having her secret romance novel addiction exposed by the most gorgeous man she’s ever met in real life. Obviously.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Patrizio Steele’s knowing smile.

I remember the moment when he picked up my Kindle like he’d just discovered my entire internet search history.

Remember the way he said my name like he had every right to use it and I was powerless to stop him.

Which, let’s be honest, I was.

The rational part of my brain—the part with the PhD in psychology—knows that there’s nothing technically wrong with a grown woman reading romance novels. Millions of women do it. It’s a billion-dollar industry. Nobody cares.

Except I care. Because I’ve spent years building a reputation as a serious academic.

Someone who publishes in peer-reviewed journals and gives presentations at international conferences and definitely doesn’t secretly fantasize about being cornered in hallways by dangerous men with commanding voices.

And now the one person who absolutely shouldn’t know about this part of me—the older brother of my student, a man who already thinks I’m influencing his sister’s research interests—knows exactly what I read when nobody’s watching.

By the time my alarm goes off at 6:30, I’ve managed approximately forty-seven minutes of actual sleep and have developed a comprehensive plan to:

a) Call in sick to all my classes

b) Change my name

c) Move to another country, preferably one without extradition

Instead, I drag myself into the shower, where I stand under water hot enough to turn my skin pink while I try to formulate a more realistic strategy for facing Patrizio Steele today.

Because he said he’d be back. With more of Annie’s work. And now armed with intimate knowledge of exactly what kinds of books I find “academically stimulating.”

“It’s fine,” I tell my reflection as I apply mascara with hands that aren’t quite steady. “You’re a professional. This is just a minor embarrassment. People have survived worse.”

My reflection doesn’t look convinced.

I dress with extra care, choosing a charcoal pencil skirt and crisp white blouse that practically screams “serious academic professional who definitely doesn’t read smutty romance novels.

” My hair goes into a tight bun, my makeup remains minimal, and I even swap my usual small gold hoops for pearl studs.

Armor, all of it. Defense against a man who’s already seen through every layer.

My office hours don’t officially start until 10:00, but I’m at my desk by 8:15, surrounded by neatly stacked journal articles and academic texts. Professional. Serious. Completely uninterested in fictional motorcycle club presidents.

The knock comes at 9:07.

Not a tentative, “excuse me, professor” student knock.

Not a collegial “hey, got a minute?” faculty knock.

Or an “I’m about to tell you something bad” kind of knock that Kassie likes to use, when she thinks I need to be forewarned to be forearmed.

This knock is none of those. Rather, it’s the kind that suggests the person on the other side knows exactly who they are, expects immediate acknowledgment, and causes my own knees to knock against each other instead.

I take a deep breath, straighten my already-straight blouse, and remind myself that I am Dr. Jayne Stuart, respected psychology professor with multiple publications and a teaching award. Not some flustered heroine in a romance novel.

“Come in,” I call, and even to my own ears, my voice sounds higher than usual.

Patrizio Steele doesn’t just enter my office. He claims it. One moment the space is mine, the next it belongs to him, my carefully arranged academic credibility no match for the sheer presence of the man who closes the door behind him with deliberate precision.

“Good morning, Dr. Stuart.” The way he says my title still sounds like an endearment, intimate rather than formal. “I hope you slept well.”

The lie rises automatically to my lips. “Perfectly, thank you.”

“Really?” His eyes glint, and why do I suddenly have a feeling that my expertly applied concealer suddenly isn’t effective at concealing the shadows under my eyes? “I’d have thought you might be...concerned about certain personal property currently in my possession.”

My Kindle. My traitorous, secret-revealing Kindle that even now is probably sitting in his pocket, loaded with evidence of exactly what kind of books keep me awake at night.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, aiming for professional detachment and landing somewhere closer to unconvincing denial.

His smile is slow and knowing. “Don’t you? I found your reading choices quite...illuminating.”

My face heats instantly, the blush I’ve been fighting since he walked in finally winning the battle. “Mr. Steele—”

“Patrizio,” he corrects, settling into the chair across from my desk with the casual confidence of someone who knows they have the upper hand.

“Mr. Steele,” I repeat firmly, clinging to formality like a lifeline. “I believe you mentioned bringing more of Annie’s work for me to review?”

“I did.” He reaches into his leather portfolio, extracting a manila folder that he places on my desk without releasing it. “But first, I thought we might discuss what I discovered about your literary preferences.”

“My reading habits are none of your business.” I reach for the folder, but he keeps his hand firmly on top, preventing me from taking it.

“Aren’t they? When they align so perfectly with the material my sister is researching?”

“I’ve already told you, I haven’t been influencing Annie’s work.”

“And yet you seem remarkably familiar with the genre she’s studying.” His fingers tap lightly on the folder. “In fact, based on your highlighting patterns, I’d say you’re something of an expert.”

I want to sink through the floor. Want to disappear entirely rather than have this conversation with this man. But since spontaneous dematerialization isn’t an option, I force myself to meet his gaze.

“What exactly do you want, Mr. Steele?”

“Honesty, Dr. Stuart.” His voice drops lower, softer.

“I want you to admit that you understand exactly why these books appeal to women like you. Why the fantasy of surrendering control to a powerful man is so compelling to someone who spends her entire life maintaining the perfect professional facade.”

My throat goes dry as the desert. He’s not just talking about what I read—he’s talking about me. About parts of myself I’ve never acknowledged out loud to anyone.

“I don’t—”

“You do.” His hand finally releases the folder, but somehow I can’t make myself reach for it anymore. “You understand the psychology of it perfectly. The appeal of being seen—truly seen—by someone who isn’t fooled by the careful barriers you’ve constructed.”

The accuracy of his assessment feels like a physical blow. Like he’s reached inside my chest and wrapped his hand around something private and vulnerable.

“You have no right—”

“To notice what’s obvious?” His eyebrow rises in elegant challenge. “To recognize desire when I see it?”

“This is completely inappropriate.” I find refuge in professional indignation, in the familiar territory of boundaries and propriety. “You’re my student’s brother. This is my workplace. Whatever you think you’ve discovered about my reading preferences has no bearing on—”

“It has every bearing on why my sister has chosen you as the subject of her research.”

That stops me cold. “What?”

“Annie’s thesis.” He taps the folder again. “It’s about you, Jayne. About the psychology of women who present one face to the world while secretly craving something entirely different. And you’re her primary case study.”

“That’s impossible.” I shake my head, refusing to accept what he’s saying. “Annie doesn’t know anything about what I read. I’ve never discussed personal matters with her.”

“She doesn’t need to know what you read to observe how you react to certain stimuli.

” His smile is knowing, almost predatory.

“To notice how your breathing changes when authority figures enter your space. How you respond to direct commands versus requests. How your pupils dilate when someone challenges your carefully constructed control.”

I feel simultaneously exposed and misunderstood, seen and misjudged. “You’re making assumptions based on—”

“Evidence, Dr. Stuart. The same evidence my sister has been collecting all semester.” He finally pushes the folder toward me. “Read it. Then tell me I’m wrong.”

My hands aren’t quite steady as I open the folder. Inside is what appears to be a detailed research journal, meticulously organized with dates, observations, and analyses. And there, on the first page, is my name.

Subject A: Dr. Jayne Stuart, 29, Psychology Professor

“This is—” I can’t even find words for what this is. Invasive? Unethical? Mortifying beyond belief?

“Thorough,” Patrizio supplies. “My sister takes her research very seriously.”

I flip through pages of observations—how I respond to different types of students, how my body language changes when department heads enter my classroom, how I maintain eye contact (or don’t) with different authority figures.

It’s all presented with clinical detachment, but the underlying conclusion is unmistakable: